


What Is It With These Hospital Dramas?

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-16
Updated: 2010-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-03 06:05:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8700322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Dean takes his role in Dr. Sexy, M.D. seriously.  Sam approves.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**WHAT IS IT WITH THESE HOSPITAL DRAMAS?**

**pairing.** Sam/Dean

**rating.** NC17

**spoilers.** 5.08 - Changing Channels

**words.** 2400

**summary.** I owed some _serious_ Scrubs!porn. Other than that, there is no summary. Unbeta'ed, so mistakes are comment fodder. :)

 

 

Sam makes a valiant effort to stop the boxes of latex gloves from falling on the floor. Dean doesn't appear to give a shit, shoving Sam against the shelf and apparently not hearing the cardboard hit the linoleum as Sam juggles two more boxes.

 

"Christ, Dean - what the hell?" Sam flails to keep the rest of the items on the sturdy shelves.

 

"Do you have any idea—any _fucking_ idea—how hot you look in this?" Pawing at Sam's crisp, clean white coat, Dean leaves no question as to what he's referring.

 

"We're in a supply—fuck, Dean, stop _doing_ that!" He swats at Dean's wandering hands when they go for the navy scrub top the Trickster literally _poured_ Sam into. "In a closet here, hello?"

 

"I know, gotta make it quick."

 

Dean's obviously had plenty of practice thwarting Sam's attempts to push him back. He employs evasive maneuvers to avoid Sam's gargantuan reach, crowding in too close and slipping his hands under Sam's stiff cotton shirt. Despite Sam's well-intentioned efforts, Dean gets a grip on his elbows and forces them back. Sam can't side-step out of Dean's hold; his brother's got him good and pinned. In any other circumstance, this wouldn't be the end of the world, but since the _end of the world_ is actually front and center, Sam's pretty sure Dean should be thinking with his upstairs brain for once.

 

"I'm not gonna tell you again—"

 

"And I'm not going to _let_ you," Dean finishes with a low-down dirty smirk.

 

_Bastard_.

 

The supply "room" Dean shoved him into five minutes ago is cramped and claustrophobic, medical equipment pressing in from every side and dimly lit from the flickering neon lights overhead. Of course, the lack of decent lighting and the notion that _anyone_ could just walk in isn't going to stop Dean Winchester when he's on a mission—especially when his current mission is the tight drawstring at Sam's waist.

 

"We should be trying to get out of here," Sam reiterates, but his voice lacks the conviction of a few minutes ago. The manner in which Dean's hands trace deceptively lightly over his hips usually has that effect. "Trickster, remember?"

 

"Weren't you listening, Sammy?"

 

Sam nods—of course he was listening when the damn Trickster spewed his ridiculously jumbled drivel. _Blah blah blah_ 'teaching you a lesson'. _Et cetera and so forth_ 'hello? Trickster!'. _Yada yada yada..._

 

"Got to _play_ the game," Dean finishes Sam's thought with a roll of his hips against where Sam's dick is trapped under the thin scrub pants. Apparently—why Sam hadn't noticed before now is a mystery—the Trickster hadn't deemed underwear necessary in this horrible scenario. "Really get into our roles. I'm plannin' on getting pretty deep into _your_ character, Sammy."

 

The idea that the switch on Dean's filthy mouth won't even turn off in a hospital doesn't shock Sam. Instead, his voice is a live wire straight to Sam's dick—extremely inconvenient at times—and Sam's erection responds traitorously, filling with a rush of blood and hardening between their bodies.

 

"Dammit, Dean!" Even Sam knows he doesn't sound all that upset, but he can't forget _where_ they are and _what_ he's 99.9 percent positive they're about to do. Token resistance is _still_ resistance, and Sam can say 'I told you so' later. "Someone could walk in!"

 

"But they won't," Dean answers cockily. "Fucking around in a supply closet like this is practically _required_! It's gotta happen, Sammy."

 

Put like that, it sounds absurdly logical. Fuck your way to freedom—Sam could get behind that. Except Dean's still grinding against him, whispering dirty ideas when his mouth pulls away from Sam's neck.

 

"I could give you a _prostate exam_ —see? We have plenty of latex gloves."

 

"Keep your mouth shut," Sam rasps, shouldering his way out of Dean's hold. "Or I'm going to _gag_ you."

 

Dean doesn't exactly look fazed by that threat. He merely chases it back down Sam's throat with his tongue, biting at Sam's lips every time he tries to push away and get this show on the road. If Dean has his way, they'll dawdle in here while Lucifer-knows- _what_ is going on in the insane hospital world of Dr. Sexy, M.D.. Really, Sam's only left with one option. And Dean does look pretty good in that bold navy blue and crisp white coat. Good, but very much _not_ naked. Waiting until Dean's distracted, mouthing over the mole on Sam's chin and biting the softer skin underneath, Sam throws his weight forward. Dean can't catch his footing and ends up pinned against the opposite shelf—a perfect mirror of their previous position.

 

"You want to get into character, _Dean_?" Sam hisses, playing at the same game as Dean. "Then you're gonna be the one standing there and taking it."

 

There's no complaint or protest leaving Dean's lips—Sam won't give them a chance. No gentle kisses to ease Dean into this—they're long on practice and short on time—and Sam just _takes_. Takes advantage of Dean gasping to slide his tongue into his brother's mouth, stops to take Dean's fat bottom lip between his teeth and tug, getting a sharp moan for his efforts. Sam takes Dean's wrists from where they're flirting along his waist and pins them back, causing the shelf to shake alarmingly. Fortunately nothing falls since Sam's not letting go of Dean—hell, Dean _started_ this mess—and his brother isn't too keen on allowing Sam to move away anytime soon. The air in the closet gets close and stuffy, and Sam yanks off his white coat, then Dean's. His thumbs flick Dean's nipples once, twice through the scrub top. Dean's cock bumps Sam's through two layers of cotton—the Trickster forewent underwear for Dean, too, and later Sam might revisit just how _creepy_ that is—and their hips shift and push to find that exact groove on each other's bodies for the best pressure. A minute of that and Sam's cock is fully tenting his scrubs, falling out towards Dean and his brother doesn't miss that. Dean's eyes shoot down and go wide before he licks his lips and just _drops_.

 

Within a breath Dean's on his knees, leaning forward for this obscene prayer at Sam's feet. Desperate hands claw Sam's pants down his hips and then Dean's arms wind around his legs to pull Sam's cock to his lips.

 

It's wet and fast and dirty—no fancy tricks or finesse, just back to basics with Sam's cock in Dean's hot mouth. He rides over Dean's tongue, appreciating the way that muscle flicks and licks the underside when Sam pulls out. Dean swallows when there's too much spit in the back of his mouth that it leaks from the corners of his lips, then goes right back to hoovering Sam's cock with gusto. It's almost embarrassing how quickly Sam goes from turned-on to red- _fucking_ -hot, but he reads sheer _want_ on Dean's face and Sam can feel himself cresting far too soon.

 

"Fuck—enough, Dean!" His fingers tighten on Dean's scalp trying to wrench him away, but it's hindered from the suction of Dean's mouth. Sam doesn't want to come before the main event, but the sounds Dean is making—the goddamn needy whines and slick slurps, and the fucking _hot_ little noise when Sam's dick slips a little too far down Dean's throat—are driving him up a wall and his cock _really_ likes the idea exploding right then and there. It's like a dam that's being released, floodwaters spilling over, or some other completely stupid metaphor involving water Sam can't think of right now because he's absolutely going to come down Dean's throat any _fucking_ second, pull back and cover his lips with semen. Going to come _rightthefuck_ —

 

And then there's nothing but a sweaty hand tight around the base of his cock and Sam wants to scream. Instead, he nearly chokes on the words trying to force their way out of his throat.

 

"Dean— _shit_ , no. What—"

 

His brother kneels there and pants, smirking like a porn star waiting for the money shot, and even the hot puffs of Dean's breath could make Sam come if Dean would just _move_ his damn hand.

 

"You said to stop, so I stopped."

 

No way Dean should look so fucking smug and satisfied when neither of them have been _satisfied_. Staring up at Sam with near-perfect innocence, except for his cock-swollen lips and heavy breathing. As if he's seeing red, Sam hauls Dean up off his knees and flings him face first against the metal shelving. It takes minimal effort for Sam's fingers to rip apart the ties on Dean's pants and let them drop. He doesn't care if Dean kicks them off as long as his ass is bare. His own pants are stuck around his knees, rubbing against the back of Dean's legs as Sam ruts between Dean's ass cheeks. Sam rocks back and forth, letting the head of his dick catch on Dean's dry hole until the urge to come dies back to a more manageable level. Dean keeps pushing back against him, getting Sam to push harder and moaning when Sam's cock drags between his legs and rubs his balls.

 

Sam's just starting to get lost in the rhythm when Dean's hands start fumbling around on the shelf in front of him. Then, he's pushing something back into Sam's hands, and Sam just stares at the conveniently marked tube.

 

"Why the fuck is there a box of lube in here?"

 

"Because this is Dr. Sexy's hospital," Dean explains with a creepy amount of confidence. Sam would be really weirded out only Dean's gotten impatient and opened his own bottle of lube, using his fingers to slip around and inside his ass.

 

Blinking to focus in the dim light, Sam can't stop starting at how Dean's opening himself. One finger, then two scissoring and pulling at his rim, stretching until two fingers slide in and out easily. That's when Sam drizzles the slick gel on his own fingers and adds his middle and pointer to Dean's without preamble, feeling Dean's ass tighten around their fingers. As if Sam's brain wasn't having enough trouble keeping up already, Dean thrusts his ass back at Sam as soon as their fingers slip out, practically presenting himself for Sam's pleasure.

 

"You waiting for the invitation, Sammy?" Dean asks without a hint of shyness even though his cheeks—top _and_ bottom—are flushed pink. "'Cause I'm ready for my _examination_ , Doc—"

 

"I swear, Dean," Sam growls, "if you call me Doctor—"

 

"When in Rome..." Dean snarks back easily, like his ass isn't on display and ready for Sam's dick.

 

Sam's been here enough to know that the best way to shut Dean up is to _fill_ him up, so he slicks his cock with the extra lube on his hand and drives in. Anything Dean is planning to say turns into mush and spills out with a gasp and a string of curses. Sam doesn't miss a beat, fucking his brother with all the force and enthusiasm he'd have if they weren't stuck in a closet in some fake hospital at the whim of a seriously fucked up demigod. At first Sam leans back, hips thrusting in long, hard strokes that match the rhythm of Dean's breathing. It's steady and tight, and Sam could go on like this for hours if he wants Dean strung out on sex. But there's no time for that and Sam bends forward to fit himself along Dean's back. He wants to _feel_ Dean reacting to the way Sam's dick can move inside him, feel the way Dean's abs tighten and shift when Sam's strokes turn from long and hard to quick and sharp, putting pressure exactly where Dean needs it.

 

And Dean's screaming, no longer bothering to keep his voice down. Sam doesn't care—why should he when everything around them is make-believe? He craves the noise, wants to be able to hear Dean coming apart because of him. All he can make out is a mix of Sam's name, some inventive and dirty language, and mangled words that are barely more than loud moans. Pressing into Dean, Sam can see how he's forcing Dean's cheek against the shelf with every hard push, but his brother doesn't seem to mind—his face is all tortured pleasure. It'll leave a mark though, a red impression on Dean's face to remind Sam, and he imagines there could be a matching one on Dean's backside from the force of Sam's hips.

 

Dean's voice dies away when he gets close to coming, helped along by Sam's hand wrapped loose and twisting around his cock. They're no longer coordinated but it doesn't matter. Sam can't even try to hold out—Dean's ass and they way he'd been running his mouth are kryptonite for Sam's stamina. He beats his hips against the back of Dean's thighs and jerks his brother off until Dean's forehead hits the metal shelving in front of him.

 

The sudden pulse of Dean's cock in his hand is a surprise, sticky wetness running over Sam's fingers, and then Sam is _done_ thinking as he comes deep in Dean's ass.

 

He keeps pumping as the pleasure fades out—Dean is panting and pushing back, still loving Sam thick inside him and the feeling is mutual. Sam could appreciate his come running along his dick, pushing out of Dean on the downstroke, but the boxes in front of his eyes remind him they're still stuck in the closet of a mad house.

 

Dean utters an annoyed, unpleasant sort of noise as Sam's carefully pulling out, drops of come splattered on the back of his legs.

 

"No fucking Kleenex in this place, huh?" Dean's griping, leaning against the shelf like he's been glued to it.

 

Sam's white coat is sacrificed to clean up—Dean made the case that he _gave up_ his ass, Sam could give up his coat—since there's not so much as a paper towel in sight. Maybe the Trickster had figured them right when he "provided" the dark scrubs that help to mask whatever mess is left on their bodies. Still, the dude's a _bastard_ and he's going down for good this time.

 

Just as soon as Sam gets them out of this fucking supply room and out of the creepy-as- _fuck_ hospital, of course.

 

"Ready to beat this place?" Dean says as he cracks open the door and peeks out.

 

"Just don't do—or say—anything stupid, Dean," Sam gets in as a last warning before the door swings open, and Sam keeps a wary eye out for slap-happy interns.

 

"Dude," Dean snorts. "It's me."

 

"Yeah," mutters Sam to himself, leaving the closet they've _just fucked in_ behind. "'Cause that never happens."

 

FIN.


End file.
